


Friday Dinners

by brieflyshystarfish



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8017651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brieflyshystarfish/pseuds/brieflyshystarfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluff. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday Dinners

“Kid, your mom and I have really made strides.”

Henry looked at Emma quickly and curiously. “How?”

“Just like, I don’t know.” Emma gestured around, lapsing as she realized she couldn't really articulate herself. 

Family dinner on Fridays alternated between Snow’s house and Regina’s house, with the occasional Granny’s thrown into the mix on nights everybody was just too tired to do any work at all. 

Snow was an excellent cook, as good as Regina, and the two of them had a friendly but severely competitive streak when it came to feeding the family. Emma figured that she and Henry won either way, so her philosophy remained firm: stand back and let them try to outdo each other. The kitchen battles, Emma figured, were a nice sedate little homemaker version of what went on in the EF, so. Have at it, Emma thought. And grinned wickedly, wickedly, at Regina when Snow threw the lobsters in the pot for tonight. 

Tonight, as usual, Regina had seated herself next to Emma. Not as usual, but nice, Emma had noticed that over the weeks she looked forward to these Fridays, to specifically sitting next to Regina at these dinners. She felt happier, brighter, more aware of herself next to Regina. And ... there were things. That had happened. Tonight. 

Henry was saying, “Like how she brought you dinner? Twice? And how much she warned you about the hot sauce? Like more than once and you still didn't listen and she fussed over you like--" he cut himself off. "Oh, my God. And how she didn’t want to go home?”

“She wanted to go home! She said so.”

Henry rolled his eyes—actually rolled his eyes. “Ma. She stayed for coffee. You know she can’t drink coffee at night.”

“I think she likes the company, Henry. And she’s getting used to being part of a family.”

Henry just looked at her. There wasn’t judgment in his gaze, but there was—something. Concern? He said, “Just don’t hurt her, ok, Ma? She’s, like, been through a lot.”

Definitely concern. 

She opened her mouth to say—what? I would never ever hurt her? are you crazy? do you know what I would do for—and thought the better of it. It all sounded ridiculous. “Henry, everything’s okay.”

“I know,” he said, now meeting her gaze. “I just really like it the way it is.” He paused, then clarified. “Happy. I like everyone to be happy. And together.” 

He gazed at Emma a moment longer, then yawned abruptly. “Happiness is the most important. Okay. I’m gonna shower now.” 

“Okay. And kid. Don’t worry. Everything's better than good.”

He nodded. 

That night, Emma was restless, playing over and over the part of dinner Henry hadn’t seen. The part where Regina’s fingers had—intentionally? she still wasn’t sure—bumped and skidded against Emma’s wrist under the dining room table and stayed there, the briefest hesitation, before sliding down, a ghost-touch, a kiss—Emma shivered—down into Emma’s hand, then dragging her two fingers across the soft of Emma’s palm from root to tip, wrist to finger, and then back down to her wrist. 

And then disappeared. 

How that touch could have been—almost friendly. Or accidental. How instead it left Emma’s arm flowering in goosebumps, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. 

How studiously Regina had avoided her eyes then or for minutes afterwards, how she had gotten up a moment later to refill Emma’s plate without asking, as if creating a moment of space between them that suddenly felt strange and hot. 

How the impulse to kiss Regina had started many months ago, or perhaps right when they’d met, when Emma had stood in the yard and Regina had rushed out of her house to hold Henry—so vulnerable, so little—Regina wearing, my god, that extraordinary grey dress—and then turned fire and cold on Emma for months, maybe years, afterwards. 

How then, they had become ... friends. Women with men who devoted themselves to their women. 

But how tonight that same impulse—buried, beat back, forgotten—rose not once, but twice: when Regina sat back down silently with Emma’s full plate in one hand, diving seamlessly back into conversation with Snow, turning her face away from Emma to give her attention to Snow. And Emma accepting the proffered plate, staring for a second, wanting so fiercely to brush Regina’s hair off of her neck up a little and kiss what Emma imagined to be the soft warm place behind Regina’s ear, now flushed at the tip. 

How Emma saw a tiny tremor as Regina lifted her glass to her lips, then. 

And the second time. When Emma found herself unnecessarily standing at her parents’ door, bidding Regina goodbye. Regina’s eyes were large and dark on hers, only slightly lidded from the wine, unfathomable and rich, holding Emma’s even as she hugged Henry and accepted her jacket from Snow—but this time Emma pulled herself away, literally took a step back. Because she wanted to touch her friend. And touching her friend this way—with this much desire—was scary. 

Scary, Emma thought, suddenly illuminated. Not wrong. Just scary. 

It wasn’t an accident, she realized, mind racing back to hover over Regina's fingers tracing Emma's palm. It couldn’t have been. Regina didn’t have accidents like that. Angry accidents yes. Sociopathic accidents, sure. Well, hopefully not anymore. But tender accidents? Sexy accidents? No. Regina’s internal guards, gentle as she’d become, were still too high to permit that kind of casual intimacy, even with—especially with? Emma. 

Emma flopped over on her bed with a sigh. Fuck. Just because there was an energy here—it didn’t mean anything.

Is this what Henry meant?

And yet. She closed her eyes, shivering again as she imagined running her tongue down Regina’s neck. Imagined leaning to bridge their space and touching her lips to Regina’s warm mouth, kissing her as viscerally and thoroughly as the emotions playing in Regina’s eyes. 

Did Regina have these thoughts? Did she see Emma and want—

Yes, Emma knew suddenly. They were too aligned. They were too alike for this to be Emma’s own delusion or daydream. She sighed again. They operated too closely for this to have developed overnight. And for it to have developed alone, choosing one and leaving the other. 

So even though she nearly fell off her bed when her phone shrilled, Emma was not surprised to see Regina’s name on the screen. 

Emma smiled as she answered. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

They held silence for a moment, and Emma let out a slow exhale. 

“Emma, were you asleep?”

“I can’t sleep.”

More silence. 

Then Regina. And her voice would have been practiced, easy, authoritative, except it cracked on the last syllable. “Come over. Have a drink with me. Let’s—talk.”

Emma felt a rush of nervousness so extreme she had to force herself to take a breath. “I’ll bring us pie. It’s got apples.”

She could hear Regina smile through the phone. “Snow’s learned how to make me happy.”

“It’s all anybody wants, Regina,” Emma said. 

Suddenly abashed by her own honesty, she bit her lip. 

More silence. 

“See you soon, Emma,” Regina finally said, and disconnected, to Emma’s relief. 

 

_____

Emma walked. To delay. To avoid. To plan.

But there was no planning, just an endless loop of what it would feel like when she kissed Regina. And her feet got her to Mifflin Street much faster than she thought. 

Emma wasn’t truly expecting Regina to kiss her when she opened the door, but was nonetheless disappointed when it didn’t happen. 

“Hi,” Regina said gently, leaning on the door. “Thank you.”

Emma lifted the tupperware. “Pie. For talking.”

Regina’s lip quirked and then full-out smiled, and Emma let go a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “Want to sit outside?”

Emma looked up. A field of bright stars shone, and a tiny slip of moon. The air was fresh, late summer cooling at night. And it was silent, except for when tree limbs caught wind and made a rushing sound. But still not cold, even when the wind rose. Satisfied with her assessment, she turned back to Regina nodding, then flushed when she saw how amusedly Regina was gazing at her. 

“I wouldn’t let you freeze, Emma,” she said, turning on her heel and disappearing into the house. “Here,” she said, reemerging swiftly, handing Emma a blanket and a bottle of scotch and two forks. Regina balanced two tumblers and two sweaters in her other hand. “Let’s go to the back of the house, okay?” 

Emma nodded and Regina smiled at her again, that soft smile she had, unexpected and small but it shot energy all through Emma. Regina ducked her head a bit and tucked her hair behind her ear. 

This. Emma thought. This is something. This is not a nothing. 

She thought about the first girl she’d loved: a girl her own age in Emma’s second foster home, one who rarely talked except to tell exceptionally funny jokes—no small feat for an eight year old—and who would, in silence, this kind of silence, put her hand in Emma’s and draw her down to sit beside her when they watched tv, who would lay her head against Emma’s shoulder. Who trusted Emma with her tiny secrets, shards of memories from time past with other families. And Emma fell blindly in adoration and love, relishing her. And their mutual understanding, above all: the same tree rooted within them both. 

They spread the blanket in silence. Except for the light glowing in Regina’s living room window, the night was wide and dark: Emma could feel that even the trees knew their secret. 

Regina poured a small amount into each glass and handed over one to Emma, her eyes shining. They clinked in cheers and took an obligatory sip the glasses but both women set down their glasses. Regina smoothed her hands over her knees and jumped when Emma said, “How come you couldn’t sleep?”

Regina tilted her head slightly. In the quietest voice, she said, averting her eyes, “You know why, Emma.” 

Emma stared at her, her heart racing again. “Regina, how did this happen?” She gestured between them. “Tonight felt—“

“Felt how?”

Wonderful, Emma wanted to say, acutely aware of the longing in her rising again. She drew a breath and steeled herself. “Regina, look at me, please.” 

Regina lifted her head to connect her gaze to Emma’s, and Emma felt a shock flow through her, again. Not the way magic felt. The way lust felt. The way love feels. Together as one. And all of this history hanging between them—

Emma felt herself get lost again, like she had at the doorway, lost in the immaculate gorgeous depth of Regina’s eyes, which were so fiercely and gently communicative, deeper than deep, rich with story and hunger and—

Emma spoke, and her voice was strained now, hushed. “It felt like love, Regina. It felt like I had loved you this whole time and not even known. Not just because you touched my hand and brought me a plate of lobster without asking. Well, maybe a little,” and Emma grinned briefly. “And when you left I felt lost. I felt lost.” 

She paused now, trying to find the right words, to be brave. “But before you left I wanted everybody to go away so I could be close to you. Which sounds so—juvenile. I wanted to stop time just for a moment to keep looking at you before anybody noticed. I didn’t think past that.” 

Regina was hugging herself tight, and still, gaze flickering between Emma’s eyes and lips as she spoke. She opened her mouth to respond, but then shut it, turning her gaze away again before drawing it back. 

Emma felt the anxiety inside her begin to unspool and give way to a different emotion, nameless, but bearing down on her with the force of a current. Shit. 

“Regina?” she said. 

“I’m a disaster, Emma,” Regina said quietly. “This can’t be.”

“Why? Is it magic?”

Regina’s lip quirked as if surprised. “What?”

“Is it magic? Are we—Am I feeling this way because there’s some new spell or something? Is that why you can’t, this can’t—“

Regina grinned, and her eyes glistened, full now. “Emma, it’s just us. It’s just what happens. This is life, not magic.”

“Oh.” Emma fell silent, then realized what Regina had said. “Wait, so you do too?”

“Emma, not a day has gone by—in months—where I don’t want with every bone in my body to be—like you said—close to you. To be ... with you.” Regina bit her lip and fell quiet.

Emma sucked her breath in sharply, studying Regina curiously and feeling everything bloom in her at once—need and fear and desire and love—while Regina’s body sat tense and rigid. 

And then Emma scooted forward a few inches so that her knees touched Regina’s. Emma heard her own voice issue forth, breathy and wanting, saying her name once and then again. “Regina ... Regina.”

Regina’s eyes flicked once more to Emma’s mouth, but even this slight shift in proximity had darkenened her eyes, and Regina reached a hand to Emma’s cheek, and whispered with those full eyes, “I want to kiss you,” and Emma nodded mutely, staring at Regina’s mouth, and Regina bent forward, tipped her fingers under Emma’s chin, and kissed her gently, then roughly. 

Everything, this was everything. Emma moaned softly, and Regina held Emma’s face in both hands, gentle despite their tongues moving insistent, hotly. Regina caressed Emma’s cheeks with an exquisite gentleness as she kissed her so deeply, somehow carving out a space within them both that was private and wholly theirs. Emma had not known she could be kissed this way. She felt, she knew, how much Regina loved her. Because Regina kissed the way Regina did everything she did for people she loved—deliberate, thoughtful, careful, and with a tremendous depth, staggering, that felt and had always felt like home. Emma moaned again when Regina’s mouth left hers, and she pulled Regina close, wrapping her legs around Regina’s waist so they were sitting up facing each other, body to body, legs wound. 

Regina’s eyes were like stars—bright. Full. And Emma threaded her hands into Regina’s hair, and found her mouth and kissed her again, and again, arms holding and holding and fingers in Regina’s hair and tracing down her back and holding her face and running the length of her arms and torso.

When they pulled apart the second time, Regina said breathlessly, “Come inside with me?” and Emma nodded, and Emma threaded their fingers and Regina looked at their hands, twined, and smiled at Emma shyly. 

But once inside, Regina hesitated. Without dropping their linked fingers, she stepped back from Emma. “We should probably talk.” Her voice was soft, regretful. “Emma, all I want--to do--Jesus. Is get in bed with you. But if we do that, right now, the blowback could be—crazy. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and we’re both so terrified we don’t talk. This is new,” she said. “I think. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

Emma’s brain began working again, sometime after Regina’s first sentence. “I agree,” and she surprised herself with that. “But. Or and. I really want to be near you.”

Regina exhaled audibly, relieved. “Yes.” 

“Like could we make out all night and then fall asleep?”

Regina grinned, this time, fully. She’s beautiful, Emma thought, disconcerted, making a mental note to try to make Regina smile more. Regina asked, “Together in the same bed?”

Emma grinned now, stupidly. “You’re really beautiful.”

Regina’s smile faltered, and an unidentifiable look passed over her eyes, hooded now, and the bright glow of tears pressing down was back. She stepped close to Emma and wrapped her arms around her neck, holding on tight, burying her face in Emma's neck.

“So that’s a yeah?” Emma said quietly, gathering Regina closer. 

“Yes,” said Regina. 

Emma had never spent a night just kissing somebody. It was awesome. 

It was a language, Emma discovered, kissing. Kissing was a language. And it was hard to think when she kissed Regina. So it was easy for the time to slip by. 

They would break for secrets and gazes. 

When morning came, Emma found herself wrapped soundly in Regina’s sleeping form, Regina who smelled like cardamom and tuberose and held on in her sleep, held on as if she was the most precious. Who relaxed fully. Which surprised Emma. And didn't. Because the woman gave herself over like this. Always. 

And Emma did not, even then, stop kissing her, albeit traces of kisses, in her hair, grateful, intensely grateful. 

And for everybody being brave. 

Emma felt relieved when she remembered Henry’s words, just as she drifted off to sleep. 

Happiness. Of course.

**Author's Note:**

> kissing. so much kissing.


End file.
